Volcano
by thisflyingmachine
Summary: Give me miles and miles of mountains and I'll ask for the sea.   AU. KatnissPeeta. KatnissFinnick.
1. Part One

VOLCANO.  
PART ONE.

* * *

[PEETA.]

It's been a good year.

Business is great, for one thing. The bakery's thriving. And Since Prim started college up north, Katniss and I have had more time together. They talk on the phone every day, but with Prim in another state, Katniss is finding it hard to focus absolutely all her time on her sister.

At least, we had more time together for a little while. She started finding other ways to occupy herself pretty quickly. Lately she's been taking extra shifts at work and spending a lot of time down at the marina. She knows someone down there who owns a boat-that's what she told me-and he's teaching her to dive. Katniss says she always wanted to learn. Not that she ever expressed that particular desire to me before last month.

I'm painting again. A lot. It's a good way to pass the time, especially since, with our schedules, Katniss and I keep missing each other. It's like we're never in the same place at the same time.

I don't see her as much as I'd like. But it's better than not seeing her at all.

So I'm happy. Mostly.

* * *

[KATNISS]

Rubbing a towel in my damp hair, I pull an oversized T-shirt and jean shorts over my bathing suit. It's cool and dark below the deck of the _Trident_, a welcome relief from the sun that had baked Finnick and I as we swam around the boat. We're anchored about a mile out.

As I flop down on the bed, Finnick appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame. Sea water runs down his chest in rivulets. Smiling, I toss him the towel.

"What's with the shirt?" he asks, stretching out beside me.

"Found it in a drawer."

"I like you better without it."

"I bet you say that to all the girls."

"Well, not _all_ . . ." He moves closer to me and brushes his lips across my collar bone. I allow this for a moment, then turn away. With a frustrated sigh, Finnick flops onto his back.

I don't know if Finnick knows about Peeta, or how he'd feel if he did. Peeta doesn't know about Finnick, though. Of that I'm sure.

We're not dating-Finnick and me, I mean. I wouldn't even classify what we're doing as "seeing each other."

I met Finnick almost two months ago. I like to walk around at the marina: I love the brisk air, the sound of the water, the great, wing-like sails and lovely boats. When I spotted the _Trident_, I had to stop to admire it.

"Like what you see?"

And there he was: Finnick Odair, so lovely in the summer sunlight that, for a moment, I was thrown.

"She's beautiful," I said finally.

He grinned wolfishly. "Almost as beautiful as you."

"I could say the same about you." I didn't know where the words came from. They just bubbled up my throat.

We carried on like that for a while, until Finnick invited me on board for a drink. We talked for a long time: about his job (diving instructor) and mine (waitress); where we'd grown up; all those pleasant, mundane things. It was dark when I left.

"It was great to meet you," I told him honestly. "Maybe I'll see you around."

"Or," he said, conjuring a business card out of nowhere, "maybe you'll call me and we'll arrange a lesson for you. Free, of course." He winked, and I found myself accepting the card. Slipping it in my purse. Taking it out and staring at it as I talked with Peeta on the phone later that night.

The very next week, Finnick started giving me diving lessons. I insisted on paying; he insisted on giving me a discount. In these two months, the lessons are all he's given me. He hasn't asked me on a date. He only tried to kiss me for the first time last week (I didn't let him). We only ever meet onboard the _Trident_, and always stick to the lessons. Nothing more. I'm glad. I don't think I want to tell him about Peeta.

I close my eyes. Finnick doesn't speak, but I can hear him breathing, feel his warmth beside me.

Someone once told me that cheating's in the heart.

Trouble is, I'm not sure what's in my heart.

* * *

[FINNICK]

Something tells me that I'm just her something-on-the-side. A beautiful, fiery girl like Katniss . . . She's bound to have men swarming around her. Surely she's got a man at home, or elsewhere. I wonder how many she's got. How many of me.

I try not to think about that when I'm with her. It bothers me. I've been there before: used like an object, then tossed aside when I become boring or broken.

Every time she grabs her purse and hurries from the boat, I hope she's not planning to use me. To use me up.

It's funny: In the five years since Annie's accident, I've been with a fair few people. Looking for someone to distract me. To wrench my heart from Annie's grip. I don't love Katniss, not by far. I've only known her two months. But she burns bright. Sometimes, when I'm with her, I can almost put Annie from my mind. I don't even have to kiss her to get that feeling.

Katniss leaves earlier than usual. Maybe it's because I tried to kiss her again. She didn't tell me no. She didn't tell me no last time, either, just turned her head and said, "Finnick . . ."

I know that she likes me. I haven't met a girl who didn't like me since I was fourteen. So it isn't that. What, then? Has she got a guy at home? Is it something else?

Doesn't matter. I turn in early tonight. It's Friday, and I have to get up early tomorrow. I've got a date to keep.

* * *

A/N: This fanfiction was inspired by the song "Volcano" by Damien Rice. I finished reading _Mockingjay_ the day after I bought it, and I had this incredible urge to write some _Hunger Games_ fanfiction. I was listening to some Damien Rice, and this just popped into my head. Part two will be up soon.


	2. Part Two

VOLCANO.  
PART TWO.

* * *

[KATNISS]

I'm about three hours into my shift at the restaurant when Peeta strolls in. He likes to visit me like this, since our schedules are so often conflicting. I work in a little twenty-four hour joint, so he can come in any time. Just now, it's nine o'clock in the morning.

"Get off early?" I ask, bringing him a plate and some orange juice. Peeta works at his family's bakery, and he often stays into the wee hours of the morning preparing for the next day. That's why he usually visits while I'm on my early-morning shift: It's his last stop before he goes back to his apartment and hits the hay.

"Mmm-hmm." He looks tired, but happy. "When do you get off?"

"Noon."

"You should come by after work. Or I can come to your place."

I hesitate. I don't know why. "I . . . I'll go to your place. Let myself in."

I hurry back to the kitchen to pick up another customer's food. Peeta eats quickly, pays the bill and flags me down before he leaves.

"Katniss," he says seriously. "Have you thought any more about . . . what we talked about?"

I was afraid he'd bring it up. Now I'll be fretting about it all through my shift, and so will he. "Peeta, I just don't know. I need to think about it some more."

"You've been thinking for two weeks."

"I know. I'm sorry. Can we talk about this later? I'm kind of busy."

He glances pointedly around the nearly-empty restaurant. I feel immediately guilty.

"I'm sorry, Peeta. We'll talk today. I promise."

With a little sigh, he leaves, and I feel terrible for promising him anything.

* * *

[FINNICK]

All the nurses know me here. I'm a bit of a regular. Well, as regular as it gets in a mental hospital.

After an hour-and-a-half drive, I walk in at eight o'clock sharp, the start of visiting hours, just like I do every Saturday morning. I approach the front desk and sign in.

"Finnick," the receptionist smiles. "Good to see you."

"You too." Pressing a sticker that reads VISITOR onto my shirt, I head to room 523.

As I reach for the door knob, the door swings open and a nurse steps out. Her name is Mary; she's been working here as long as I've been visiting. She smiles a little when she sees me.

"She had a good day yesterday, Finnick," Mary tells me.

"Let's hope today's the same," I sigh, stepping around her and into the sterile, white room. The only color is blue: the curtains, sheets and pillowcases. It gives the room a cold, arctic feeling, like Annie's been banished to some barren landscape.

Annie is sitting on the wide windowsill, her forehead against the glass, gazing out at the bright day outside. I approach her slowly, cautiously.

"Annie?"

When she looks at me, she grins. "Finnick!" I breathe a sigh of relief. Another good day.

In this place, Annie's life goes by in a series of good and bad days. On good days, she recognizes me and happily accepts my company. She can smile and laugh and reminisce about her old life. She can tell me she loves me, and give me an occasional kiss.

On bad days, it's like I'm a stranger to her. She looks at me and cringes away. Sobs uncontrollably as flashbacks fill her mind. Half the time, when she's having a bad day, she's already been sedated by the time I arrive. Still, I sit with her all day. Hold her hand and talk to her like she can understand me. I owe it to her.

It's late afternoon now, and the two of us are sitting on the floor beneath the window in a square of golden sunlight. She's leaning her head on my shoulder. Neither of us talk about the nurse who just entered and handed Annie a combination of candy-colored pills, which Annie swallowed without question or comment. Sometimes, when I'm visiting, we can almost pretend like everything is normal. But most of the time, that's impossible. Things like nurses and pills and doctors with clipboards spoil it.

"Tell me about the ocean, Finnick," Annie requests.

So I tell her about the seaside town where I grew up. Learning to swim. Fish. Dive. Sail. I describe my boat and how it feels out there on the ocean, the way the sunlight sparks off the water and filters through the blueness when I'm diving. I remind her of the fishing trips she and I used to have: a whole week, just the two of us, in the open sea. Then she tells me what she remembers, adding details I'd forgotten to mention.

It's times like these that I can see the old Annie, the real Annie, shining through. It's a faint shine, but it's there, and it gives me hope.

The doctors tell me that Annie will never be her old self. Her mind has snapped in on itself like a rubber band. The old Annie is gone.

But I don't want her to be her old self. That's beyond hoping for. I just want her functional. I want to be able to take her home with me one day. I want to go to the grocery store or the bank without worrying the whole time that she's had another episode and banging her head against a wall or trying to slit her wrists with a butter knife. I want to sleep beside her, wake up beside her.

As she gestures with her hands, describing a particular sandcastle we built together, I kiss her on the forehead. Oh, Annie. I'd happily take care of her for the rest of her life if only she could get well enough to leave this place.

* * *

[PEETA.]

I clear away my painting supplies as Katniss toes off her sneakers and hangs up her jacket. Almost everything I've been painting lately was originally intended to be a present for Katniss: flowers, landscapes, nature scenes. But once I finish, it just doesn't seem good enough. I want to paint something as beautiful as she is, something to welcome her home.

"So?" I ask, when we're settled on the old couch in my living room.

A frown touches her mouth.

"You promised we'd talk," I remind her.

"I know." She pauses for a long time. "Peeeta, I've been thinking. And I just don't think now is the right time."

"Why not?"

"I . . . I don't exactly know."

I shake my head. "Because it's never the right time with you, Katniss. We've been together for almost three years. How much longer do we need to wait?"

"It's not about us. I just don't feel totally comfortable. You know what happened when I lived with Gale."

Ah, Gale. The famous ex-boyfriend and the reason for most of my Katniss-related headaches. They were high school sweethearts, apparently. He was a couple years older. When Katniss graduated, they moved in together. It was good for a while, but they fought more and more as time went on, and it ended in a messy breakup. I think her experience with Gale is why she's been so hesitatant to open up to me.

"Look, Katniss," I sigh. "I just think that living together would make a lot of other things possible."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, for one thing, it's more cost efficient. If we share expenses, then you'll be able to save some money and, after a while, maybe you could go like to school like you talked about."

Her expression changes, and I know that she hasn't considered this. Katniss always wanted to go to music school, get a degree, maybe become a music teacher. She could do it. She's got a beautiful voice. But after her father died when she was young, Katniss took on a lot of responsibility. Instead of going to college, she moved in with Gale, got a job, and sent whatever money she wasn't using on rent or food to her little sister. But now that Prim's going to college on a scholarship and living on her own, I think it's finally time for Katniss to take care of herself. To let me help take care of her.

"You know I love you, Katniss," I tell her, brushing strands of dark hair away from her face. "I want to be with you. And I need to know that you want to be with me, too."

She lifts her face and kisses me. "I want to be with you, Peeta. I just don't know if I can be with you like this right now."

"Or ever." Reluctantly, I pull away from her. "Katniss, you need to decide."

"I know. And I will, Peeta. I will."

"I hope so."

For a long time after she heads back to her place, I sit at the table in my little kitchen.

I would wait forever for Katniss to decide. To choose me. I just don't want to have to.


	3. Part Three

VOLCANO. PART THREE.

* * *

[FINNICK.]

Gripping the phone a little tighter, I blurt, "I want to see you."

"I have a lesson scheduled on Wednesday."

"Before that. Tonight. I want to take you to dinner."

"Finnick, no. I'm working tonight. And even if I weren't, I would tell you no."

"Why not? You like me, Katniss. You want to put on a dress and do your hair all nice and go to dinner with me."

"Look. I like you, Finnick. Of course I do. More than I ought to. But I'd like to keep our relationship professional."

"Why?"

I can almost see her shaking her head. "Does it matter?"

"Now it does."

"I can't date you, Finnick. I just can't."

I have to bite down on a snide comment. "Fine, then. See you Wednesday?"

"We'll see. I have to think about it."

Rolling my eyes, I hang up. She has a boyfriend. I know it. Her voice practically screamed it. Strangely, I don't care. Because Katniss is a beautiful, intriguing woman who's interested in me. And, for the first time in a long while, I am genuinely interested in her. She's mysterious. Alluring. Intelligent and wry. And I want her. At the very least, I want to go after her.

I run a comb through my hair, change my clothes, and grab a phone book to look up an address.

* * *

[PEETA.]

I hate to pressure Katniss. But I have a feeling that, the more time I spent around her, the faster she will decide, one way or the other. Don't get me wrong. I want her to choose me, to choose to take our relationship to the next level. But the not knowing, the waiting, is killing me. Even if she decides against moving in together, at least I'd have an answer.

So I pull on a jacket and head over to the restaurant. Streetlights are winking on as I step inside. Most of the tables are filled, but a waitress places me in a booth near the back. I watch out of the corner of my eye as Katniss bustles around, taking orders and bringing plates to customers.

"Please don't ask me again, Peeta," she says when she stops by my booth. "I'm working."

"I know. And I wasn't going to. I just wanted to see you."

She smiles a little and touches my shoulder. Then she takes my order and goes back to work.

A little while later, a young man saunters in: tall and lean, with golden hair and sea foam-colored eyes. He's striking. Even I notice how handsome he is.

He's seated not far from me, in Katniss' section. He flips through a menu, then sets it down, drumming his fingers on the table. When Katniss arrives at his table, notepad in hand, she looks startled, even as he grins sunnily up at her. I have to concentrate to hear what they say.

"What are you doing here?" she hisses, her voice low.

"I told you I wanted to see you tonight."

"And I told you no."

"A wise man once told me that when a lady says no, she really means yes," he drawls, but there's something darker in his tone. "You're just playing hard to get."

"You shouldn't have come here, Finnick."

"Are you going to take my order or what?"

Katniss scribbles it down, then returns to the kitchen, looking calm. She reappears a few minutes later, plates balanced on her arms. She deposits them at nearby tables, finally turning to mine.

"Here you go," she says.

"Who is that?" I can't help but ask.

"Who?"

"Him. Over there."

"He's . . . nobody. My diving instructor," she amends.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing."

"Katniss."

She tosses her head, flicking her bangs out of her eyes. "He asked me on a date. I told him no."

"Oh." Somehow, I don't feel any better. "All right, then."

"I can tell him to clear out of here, if you want."

"No, don't worry about it. It's not a big deal."

But it is.

* * *

[KATNISS]

I could murder Finnick Odair. Even from all the way across the restaurant, I can see him: smug as a king and handsome enough to burn my eyes a little. It's hard to keep from stealing glances at him as I move from table to table, though fury smolders in my guts.

It's not that he came into my work when I specifically told him not to. In any other situation, I would've been irritated, but I'd have gotten over it quickly. I would have shaken my head and smiled and laughed a little as he joked and tossed his hair out of his eyes.

No, it's not just that he's here. It's that he's here at the same time as Peeta.

Finnick and Peeta. These were two parts of my life that I had hoped would never even make eye contact, much less sit down just a few booths away from each other at my restaurant.

I can't stand the way Peeta looks at me as I bring him the check. There's nothing accusing in his eyes. Just something slightly sad, like he's holding onto some painful secret. His eyes make me want to turn around and whack Finnick across the back of the head.

There's nothing between me and Finnick. Not really.

So why do I feel so guilty?


End file.
